


Blood that Tastes of Coffee Grounds

by grassycheesecake



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/F, Vampires, but that's not the focus, i know all that is cliche but bear with me, rating is for swearing and a mildly horny internal monologue, some christmas stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2020-06-22 15:51:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19672765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grassycheesecake/pseuds/grassycheesecake
Summary: Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you've decided to stay at school over winter break.  In an attempt to distract from the desolate emptiness of your campus, you spend an evening early in the break at a coffee shop you've never been to before, where you meet a beautiful stranger.  From there, things go both very wrong and very, very right.





	1. An Unpleasant Incident to Begin a Romance

Your name is Rose Lalonde, and you are very, _very_ gay. This is not a surprise to you, of course. You’ve been aware of your attraction to women since the first time you saw evil alt-world Willow during your middle school Buffy the Vampire Slayer binge, and the path that led you from then to your current point in time was lined in many more beautiful, vaguely dangerous women for you to lust over and dream of looking like. Still, though, it’s not often that you’re reminded of the gayer side of your raging bisexuality quite so intensely as is happening right now. You are reliving the Willow Experience in a coffee shop, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say that Sappho herself must have blessed this instance with heavenly waves of pure, unadulterated gal-pal cravings. 

In other words, the woman sitting a few tables away from you is the most beautiful individual you have ever had the privilege of laying eyes on, and you’re exhausted enough to toy with the idea of believing in love at first sight. 

She’s looking down, fiddling with something that you can’t see but presume to be her phone, and you are awestruck. Her hair is dark and styled, not a strand out of place, into an interesting cut that gets longer as it goes up her head, longish “bangs” swooping elegantly past her forehead in a way that seems to almost defy gravity. Her skin looks smooth and blemishless even from a distance, its rich tannish color even throughout. And, of course, her style is impeccable. She has on a jade green sweater and what look like high waisted slacks. It’s all very mature and elegant looking, and you wonder to yourself how old she is. That, and how she gets her lipstick so perfect. And if she’d be willing to ravish you. 

Wait. No. Stop it. 

You take a deep breath and try to regain your composure. The woman flutters her eyelashes and touches a hand to her lips in a gesture of surprise at something on her unseen screen. You are anything but calm. 

In an attempt to ensure that the woman doesn’t notice your staring and forever shun you as a creep/stalker, you grab the newspaper from the table next to you and open it to a random page. You scan the words, not paying much attention until a strange word catches your eye. You notice the word “vampire” in the middle of one of the main articles, and it catches your interest enough that you return to the top of the page and begin to read. 

The article is about a kid from your university that claims somebody attacked him and drank his blood. He has a wound on his neck and was found passed out in an alley downtown. It’s obvious the reporter that wrote it doesn’t believe him, but it does include a quote from him defending the veracity of his claims. “I know what this sounds like,” He said. “Some freshman kid does too many drugs at a party and does something stupid with his friend, then makes up some wild story to divert the police, but I swear to God I’m telling the truth.” 

You agree with him there. It’s not impossible that he and a friend might have gotten high enough on something or other to think it was a good idea to “become vampires” and suck each other’s blood, and not impossible is a lot more than you can say for the alternative explanation. 

You reach for your coffee and hazard a glance upward as you take a sip. The woman is standing up and gathering her things, revealing her impressive height and the soft curves of her body and oh, vampire or not, you sure would love to take a bite out of that. 

Goddamnit. 

You bury your nose in the newspaper again and start reading an article about the city’s controversial decision to replace some benches. It’s terribly boring, and you decide you’d rather reread the vampire article. Upon second examination, you realize that the paper is about ten months old. You have no idea why the hell it was sitting out in a coffee shop so long after its publication. 

While you reread the article, the woman brushes past your table. You glance up at her as she does so, and she smiles at you. It’s the most amazing smile you’ve ever seen, and by the time you realize you ought to have smiled back instead of staring in wide-eyed awe, she’s already out the door. 

As a consolation to yourself, you reapply your lipstick and take another sip of your coffee. The act of leaving a fresh lipstick stain on something has always been satisfying to you, as if some primal part of your brain still feels the urge to mark its territory. You stare at the cup and imagine leaving that black kiss shape in other places. At first the woman’s and then, when you realize that might be crossing the line of acceptable fantasies about strangers, on the skin of some abstract, faceless female lover. You imagine the feeling of soft skin under your lips rather than an eco friendly one hundred percent post consumer biodegradable paper coffee cup. You need a girlfriend. 

At least, you think to yourself, the coffee is pretty good. You decide to come back to this shop. 

~

The walk back to your dorm is, according to your mental calculations, approximately four hundred and thirteen times worse than your time in the coffee shop. While the interior of High Ground Coffee was warm, well decorated, and populated by the most beautiful woman you’d ever seen and a friendly barista with a Buffy pin on her apron, the streets of campus are cold, wet, and populated by absolutely fucking nobody. You kick yourself again for choosing a dorm on the west side of town. You were so bewitched by its interesting gothic exterior and in-building dining hall that you forgot to account for the fact that you have to cross a river to get from it to, y’know, anything. You should have just lived in the honors dorm like your mom wanted, but you had to be spiteful and contrary. 

There is, you know, no turning back now. The time for regrets and room change request forms has passed, and there is nothing left for you to do but trudge through the slushy flurry and try not to think about how cold and windy crossing the bridge will be. It will be very cold. And very windy. 

You decide to take a shortcut and use the path that goes behind the library, as it will shave a minute or two from you walk. You’d normally never stray from the main roads so late at night (It’s only about eight pm, but it’s been dark since before five), but you’ve yet to see another person since you left downtown. You’re pretty sure that A: somebody could grab you right out on the street and have no more witnesses than in a back alley, and B: even the predators have either gone home for winter break or holed up indoors to avoid the weather like sensible people. You figure you maybe ought to regret your choice of which night to finally go check out the new coffee place, but hell, at least you got to ogle somebody pretty. Wait, no. You frown, disappointed by your mental narrative’s poor word choice. She wasn’t just pretty; she was bewitching, beautiful, ethereal

Lost in thought, you dart through a courtyard and up the stairs that lead to the path behind the library. The cold brick face of the building looms on your left side, and a fenced off set of train tracks block all escape to the right. You make a silent prayer to your dead cat Jaspers (you’ve been praying to him since you decided that God wasn’t real at age twelve) and begin the next phase of your trek. 

As you walk, something begins to come into focus that you very much wish was not there. There’s a dark shape crumpled on the grassy side of the path, a very large dark shape. You don’t want to turn around, so you’ve no choice but to approach it. The closer you get, the more it looks like a person. You hope it’s just some passed out drunk kid and not a freezing homeless person. Or, actually, you think, maybe not a passed out drunk kid. You’re pretty sure anyone unconscious out here for too long would freeze. 

Then, much sooner than you would have liked, you reach the shape. It’s a person alright, but it’s an unmoving person wrapped up in several layers of coat and blanket. A very big part of you wants to leave immediately now that you know whoever this is has on winter gear, but your fear of reading about the police finding a dead body behind the library in the morning eggs you on. You have to know, so you tiptoe closer. 

From up close, you can tell this person is very much unwell. They look pale and clammy and, despite the blankets, very cold. You hold a hand up near their face and can feel shallow, warmish breath. That’s good. You take a step back and clear your throat. 

“Excuse me sir, or ma’am… or whoever… are you alright?” There is no response, so you raise your voice and try again. “Excuse me, are you okay?” No answer. You waffle back and forth for a moment, unsure of what to do. In the end, your inner do-gooder overpowers your desire to just get somewhere fucking warm already, so you step back from the unknown unconscious person and steel yourself to call the police. When you feel as ready as you’ll ever be, you unlock your phone and dial 911. The ringing sound is deafening over the silent snowy night. 

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Hi. I, um, I found somebody passed out in the snow. I tried a little to wake them up but it didn’t work, and also it’s very cold, so I think they might be in trouble.” 

“Okay. Can you tell me where you are?” 

“I’m on the university campus. I don’t know the address, but I’m on the sidewalk that goes behind the main library building. Along the train tracks.” 

“Alright, thank you. It’ll just take a minute or two for us to send an ambulance over. Are you alright to stay outside for that long?” 

“Yes, I’m wearing winter things. I can stay out here if you need me.” 

“Alright dear. An ambulance was just dispatched. It’ll just be a minute now.” 

As she speaks, you hear the sound of a siren begin to echo over the silent quiet campus. You’re impressed it’s that loud from all the way over the river.

“Okay.” 

“I’ve also sent a campus police officer your way to get a statement and help you home. There was one close by, so they should just be a minute or two as well. 

“Okay.” 

The woman on the other line continues to talk beyond that, but you stop listening once you’re sure that she isn’t saying anything important. The wind has slowed down, leaving the world still and frozen save for the slow fall of snowflakes and the sirens getting louder by the second. You wonder when your life turned into a shitty movie. This isn’t the type of thing that happens to real people in real life. The ambulance pulls up to the street at the far end of the path, bathing you in flashing red light. You decide that, at the very least, the weird melodrama your life has become ought to be well shot. You could do some real interesting effects with the flashing lights and the snow. 

The paramedics rush down the path to you, speaking brusquely as they look over the unconscious person. They ask questions about how you found the body, what you’ve done to it, etc. One of them thanks you for calling them, which is nice, but the rest of the ordeal is nothing more than stressful. Once they’ve assured that the person isn’t about to die, they lift them up onto a gurney and whisk them away. You overhear a comment about how the blanket pile (which they left behind) was keeping the person alive despite the cold, and another one about a wound in the person’s neck. You wish that someone else was with you to take a picture of you in the flashing lights. You bet you’d look quite striking. 

Just as the paramedics reach the ambulance with the gurney, a campus police officer appears walking toward you from the other end of the path. You sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that you have to think about what’s going on again. It’s a lot colder when you let yourself be aware. 

The officer is a tall, muscular woman whose name badge reads Sandra Ramirez, and she quickly proves to be the least interesting part of the whole ordeal, asking all the same questions you already answered to the paramedics and the woman on the phone. When she finally finishes, she offers you a ride back to your dorm in her car. Your fingers are going numb, so you decide to oblige. 

You try your best to distract yourself for the few minutes it takes to get home. Your really, really do not want to think about the weird hollow face of the person that you found, but it’s hard not to. You know it’s unhealthy to fixate on a stranger, but the only thing that works to clear all the unpleasantness from your mind is thoughts of the beautiful woman from the coffee place. 

You continue to dwell on her as you thank the officer for the ride, enter your building, and climb four and a half flights of stairs to reach your room on the top floor (the elevator here is shaky and very slow. You very much do not trust it.)

Despite the cold and the snow and the night’s events, you decide you’ll be returning to High Ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a fucking oneshot.
> 
> But no for real, this fic is a lot more fast and loose than what I mostly try to post. Writing it is a de-stresser for me when I start grinding to a halt on my other projects, but that also means that I haven't edited it nearly as much as I try to with most things I post. Also, it's in second person because fuck everything it's fun and easy. I hope you enjoy despite the (maybe? I honestly can't tell) subpar quality.
> 
> Since this is just sort of what I work on when I need a break from other stuff, I have no idea when I'll update. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	2. A Pretty Girl to Ease Your Worries

True to your sleepy resolve, you make it a point to return to High Ground Coffee the next night, and the next night, and the next, your days becoming a familiar routine of writing in your room during the day and walking to get a mocha each evening. You see the same woman there each time, always at her same table in the corner, always dressed impeccably. You never interact with her much, but she always brushes past your table and smiles at you on her way out. And hell, you even managed to make eye contact and smile back at her yesterday. 

Today, though, will be different (or at least that’s what you tell yourself.) Tonight you’re going to leave half an hour earlier than usual so that you can beat her there and sit at her table. If nothing else, you think, that will force her to acknowledge you. If she seems disappointed, you could even offer it to her as a gesture of chivalry. 

Satisfied with your plan, you lean back from your desk and turn in your chair to face your room. Your roommate Aradia went home for break with her boyfriend, so you’ve got the place to yourself for quite a while. Bless your mother’s bank account, the extra fee was no problem. 

Then, just as you were about to begin another spaced out reflection on your plans for the night, your phone rings. You pull out your phone and, to your surprise, it’s not a robocall. It’s Dave. You answer. 

“Hello Dave.” 

“‘Sup Rose. How’s my favorite twin doin’?” 

“I’m doing quite well, actually, though I fear the nature of my good fortune may be lost on you if I were to try and explain.” 

“Wow ok. Really rolling out the condescension first thing, huh. It’s a goddamned talk down to Dave party up in this phone call from minute one. I don’t know why I even try.”

“Please rest assured, the explanation for my previous statement rests more in my own flighty nature than with any ignorance perceived to be in your possession. However, I do have plans for the night. Might I inquire as to what prompted this phone call of yours?” 

“Hey Rose you sure you’re good? You’re starting to talk too much like we both do when we’re stressed.” 

“I am fine David.” 

“Ok you know my isn’t David. I was named after great comedian Dave Chappelle, not some stupid statue with a wang the size of a Lil Smokey.”

“Of course, how could I be so careless?” 

“I don’t know Rose. I don’t know.” you wait for him to keep talking, but he doesn’t. You decide that he’s never going to get to the meat of the conversation unless you take his hand and walk him there. 

“Now tell me, was there a point to this phone call?” 

“Oh yeah. That. Honestly though, who even needs points? Can’t I just have a nice conversation with my sister for once?”

“No. Not while you’re being avoidant.” 

“Fine fine, all secret seekers please hop aboard the Dave train, ‘cause we’re departing for uncomfortable station at now o’clock. You ready for some tea sis?”

“Yes, on the condition that you never say the word tea to me again.” 

“You drive a hard bargain, but deal. I’m more of a coffee guy anyhow.” Dave trails off for another long moment, but you decide to let him sit until he builds up the nerve to fill the silence himself. After a minute or so, he does. “So, you remember that guy Karkat that I was telling you about? Like, the one that lives a floor below me that I’ve been hanging out with a lot?” 

“Yes, I remember.” For the first time since picking up the phone, you know exactly where this is going. Conversational predictability is a rare treat when it comes to mister Dave Strider. 

“Well the thing is…” and just as you guessed, Dave launches off into a very long rant skirting the topic of having homosexual affections for his loudmouthed friend. You look at the clock on the microwave, which is edging close to your planned departure time, and you resign yourself to try your plan another day. Helping your brother still outranks the importance of pursuing your own homosexual affections. For now. 

~

When you walk into High Ground coffee later that evening, you are delighted to see that nobody is at the beautiful stranger’s usual table. You managed to curb your conversation with Dave to about forty minutes long while still offering what you consider to be quite good advice, so you’re still arriving a very small amount before your normal time. Your delight drops, however, when you realize that the woman in question is standing in line. Damn. 

You get in line behind her and resign yourself to wait a day to execute your brilliant scheme. She glances back when you step behind her, and you imagine to yourself that she’s filled with all the same flighty attraction that you are. You doubt it, though. Then she smiles toward you, just the subtlest twitch of her black lipstick, and your doubtful imaginings undergo an instant metamorphosis, spreading their wings to become genuine hopes. Your new hope butterflies don’t get far though, as they are all immediately redirected to your stomach. Curses. 

The person at the counter finishes ordering, and the woman steps up to begin her own. Her voice is very pretty in a prim and measured sort of way. She speaks smoothly and enunciates each letter as if she’s putting real thought and effort into its pronunciation, which is damn charming. She also seems to have a very slight accent, but you can’t place what it is. 

She orders, of all things, a cup of black coffee with two added shots of espresso. You’ve never heard of that before, but the barista seems unphased, so either it’s a more normal beverage choice that you thought, or this is the woman’s regular order. You’re not sure which would make you more concerned. 

Your thoughts are interrupted then, as when the barista asks the woman if she’d like anything else, she says yes. Not just yes, but she says, “Yes. I Would Like To, um, Pay It Forward, As It Were.” 

The barista (she’s the same one with the Buffy pin that you like) raises an eyebrow. “You want to leave money for the next person?” 

“Er, No. Seeing As The Next Person Is Behind Me Now,” she steps to the side, opening a path between you and the counter, “I Would Like To Add Her Order Onto My Bill.” 

“Oh, alright.” The barista smiles at the two of you, and you’re pretty sure that there’s a genuine smirk underneath all that customer service. You wonder just how much she likes Buffy; you wonder if she’s leaping to the same conclusions that you yourself are hurtling toward. 

You step up to the counter and order a medium black coffee. You can’t bear to ask for something rich and chocolatey like you usually do, not in front of miss “two shots of espresso.” Once the still smiling barista puts in your order, the woman (Oh Jaspers, you’re just now realizing how tall she is up close.) steps back up next to you and hands the barista a card to pay with. 

It takes a good eternity or so of standing in shock before you even remember that you’re supposed to thank her. Then, before you can say anything, the woman speaks again. 

“I Do Hope You Don’t Take My Offer As A Sign Of Condescension. I Assure You I Have Only Friendly Intentions.” She cuts herself off then, pressing the side of her hand to her lips, and you realize for the first time that she may not be perfect. Damn that’s charming. “Or, Rather, I Would Like You To Know That I Mean No Harm.” You try not to read into her faltering when she said “only friendly intentions.” You fail. This is getting very gay very fast, and you are delighted. 

“Don’t worry,” you say, surprised at how level your voice sounds. “I understand completely, but you must allow me to return the favor sometime in the future.” 

The woman’s eyes widen, and they might be the prettiest shade of brown you’ve ever seen. “Nothing Would Make Me Happier Miss…” 

“Rose.” You give her a smile that you hope looks wry and not just constipated. Dave always told you that your wry smile made you look constipated, but you’re pretty sure he was just bullshitting out of jealousy. Unlike you, he can’t flirt for shit. “Might I ask your name as well?” 

“Of Course.” She smiles right back at you, and though you’re not sure how, that smile looks pretty gay to you. “My Name Is Kanaya.” 

You turn the name over in your head, imagining how it might feel to say. You’re pretty sure it’s the most beautiful name you’ve ever heard, but you suppose you’ve got a bit of a bias. 

“Um, excuse me?” Both you and Kanaya startle as the barista speaks up. “I hate to interrupt, but I need you to enter your pin before the machine times out.” You watch Kanaya’s face light up with embarrassment, and she turns to punch a number into the small screen on the register. It’s one of those high tech touchpad ones, and she seems to struggle a bit to get the right angle to type on it with her long, perfectly manicured nails. It’s cute. 

Once she’s done, the two of you head down to the other end of the counter to wait for your coffees. You don’t say a word to her-you’re too nervous to even try-and Kanaya doesn’t seem to be doing much better. By the time your drinks arrive, though, you’ve managed to build up enough courage to make your move. 

“Miss Kanaya,” you say. 

“Yes?” 

“Would you like to join me at a table and enjoy our coffees together? I’d like to sit and discuss what I can do to repay you for this treat of yours.” 

“Oh, um, Yes. That Sounds Lovely, But You’re Under No Obligation To Offer Me Any Kind Of Thanks. I Expected Nothing In Return For My Gesture.” 

You give her your wry smile again, managing to maintain your external composure while a good ninety-five percent of your brain is in meltdown mode. “You’re too kind, but I have been known to exceed expectations.” 

“Wonderful.” Kanaya smiles back at you, her face full of mischief and good humor. You think you like her. 

~

Over the course of the evening, you find out several things about Kanaya. She tells you she’s a business major at your university, hoping to either find a job in fashion or sell handmade clothing as a side job. Incredibly, she’s already working on her own fashion line at home. She also tells you that she’s two years older than you, in the middle of her junior year, and this just adds to her allure. More than anything else, though, you learn that Kanaya is quite possibly the world’s nicest person. She keeps up with your sarcasm tit for tat throughout the evening, but both of you keep everything in good fun, and beyond that, she is nothing but sweet and earnest. She’s impressed by your writing major, by your jokes, by the fact that you’re from New York. 

In short, she’s absolutely perfect, and you’re pretty sure you’ve fallen in love by the end of the night. She even offers to drive you home, saving you the cold walk back to west campus.

It’s not until you’re back in your room, warm and relaxed lying in your bed, that something breaks you out of your Kanaya-centered daze. You catch sight of a local news article sent to you by your news app, one of those weird suggestions that’s relevant to you by location only. It’s an op-ed in a small local paper, written by the head of a paranormal association, and it describes what they believe to be a string of vampire attacks in your city. The attacks, according to the article (which you read strictly for ironic purposes), include the one that you read about several days prior in the coffee shop. 

You’re about to laugh it off and close the tab when a sentence at the bottom catches your eye. The kid from the paper isn’t the only victim your recognize; the most recent victim cited is none other than the stranger you found in the alley, and that makes your blood run cold. You know the article is nonsense, and yet. The paramedics did say something about neck wounds, so it could almost fit. You know it’s impossible, but in the dim haze of evening, you can almost let yourself believe believe that you saved the victim of a vampire bite. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the ending of this poorly written? Yeah. Can I be bothered to fix it right now? Nah. I might come back someday to edit this nicer, but there's also a good chance I won't ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯. Like I've said before, it's a stress relief fic. 
> 
> You wanna see some fun bonus art for this au? Check out my pillowfort: https://www.pillowfort.social/grassycheesecake/tagged/blood%20that%20tastes%20of%20coffee%20grounds (please excuse the gross link.) 
> 
> If Pf's not your bag, most of that art also winds up reposted on my tumblr eventually, so you can check that out too: https://grassycheesecake.tumblr.com/tagged/blood-that-tastes-of-coffee-grounds


	3. Real Gay Girls Listen to Hozier

Your dreams that night are the strangest you’ve had in months. You dream of Kanaya, of course, but in a way unlike anything you’ve ever dreamed before. You dream of her elegant hair, her careful voice, her pretty mouth, and so much more. You dream of dark back alleys and flashing lights, of the shape of her clad in midnight fabric, bent over the weak frame of an unsuspecting stranger. You dream of Kanaya, of her pretty mouth and long, serpentine tongue licking rivulets of blood from her black painted lips, exposing her needle-like fangs in the process. You dream of Kanaya in black leather like evil Willow, her frame all the more alluring for that added danger. You dream of stumbling your way through an abandoned alley in the nighttime, your feet made unsteady with booze, and of falling into a snowbank. You dream of closing your eyes in that snowbank, of letting the numbness and shivers take you over, and of Kanaya, beautiful, ethereal, and dangerous, appearing in silhouette before you. You dream of her lips on you neck, of her fangs breaking your skin and leeching away your blood while your body aches to be touched, to be held, in a way that it never has before. You dream of death incarnate, and the intricate, shivering, breathtaking want that she sets alight within you. 

You wake up freezing cold and clutching your pillow, your comforter tangled between your legs and wrapped around your chest like a boa constrictor. You grimace and untangle yourself, leaning over the side of your bed to check the time. It’s six o’clock, and knowing your own penchant for insomnia, you decide you’re better off just getting up. You climb down from your lofted bed and go to check your phone, and you’re delighted to see that you have a text from an unknown number that reads as follows: 

_Hello Rose. At The Risk Of Coming Across As Overly Friendly, I Thought It Wise To Thank You For The Enjoyment Last Night As Well As Provide You With Access To My Phone Number, Seeing As You So Kindly Provided Me With Yours Upon Exit From My Car._

_-Kanaya._

Her capitalized typing looks just like how her voice sounds, and it is the cutest thing you have ever fucking seen. You text back quickly with:

_Hello Kanaya, it’s wonderful to hear from you. I’m grateful for the access to your number, and please rest assured that I will never be able to interpret any gesture of yours as “overly” friendly. In fact, if this is not overstepping my bounds, I’d like to ask if you plan to return to our mutual coffee house of choice this coming evening, as I look forward to our next rendezvous._

With that done, you decide to go and take a shower. Your hair needs a washing, and you’d like some time to get some thinking done, so it’s the perfect combined activity. You gather your things and head off to the bathrooms, returning to more messages from Kanaya a good forty or so minutes later. 

_I Do Indeed Plan To Return for Coffee Tonight And, If You Don’t Mind My Saying, I Also Very Much Look Forward To Seeing You There Again. However, The Weather Forecast For The Evening Looks Rather Unfortunate, So I Worry You May Find It Difficult To Walk As You Usually Do, And I Believe I May Possess A Solution To That Problem._

_All That Is To Say, Would You Like A Ride?_

You smile down at your phone. Her awkwardness and over-formality still charms you over text as much as in person, and you’re thrilled at the prospect of having befriended somebody with a car. That’s a rare privilege for a freshman. 

_I would love a ride, thank you dearly for asking. What time would you like to meet?_

Her reply comes quickly this time. 

_7:00, perhaps?_

You have no other plans ever, and you’d probably cancel whatever plans you did have at the prospect of getting to know Kanaya, so you’ll gladly take her suggestion. 

_Sounds wonderful._

~

True to her word, Kanaya picks you up that evening at the stroke of seven. You run through the courtyard to meet her, feeling very much like a character in some overdone romance as you climb into her sleek black car and blink away the heavy snowflakes that have clustered on your eyelashes. 

“Hello Kanaya”

“Hello Rose.” She smiles at you as you sit down, and you notice that her lips are painted a deep jade green as opposed to the usual black. You’ve never seen green lipstick in real life before, but it looks good on her. Very kissable. 

“How Are You?”

You buckle your seatbelt and try to anchor yourself in the moment rather than your raging overthinking fantasies. Kanaya looks at you, gripping the wheel at a sensible, old fashioned ten and two with a posture as relaxed as anything. She even imbues driving with that effortless sense of beauty of hers. 

Focus Rose. 

“I’m doing quite well, thank you,” you say. “How is this evening treating yourself?”

“At The Present,” something in your chest constricts and flutters as you watch Kanaya slide her eyes across you. “I Believe That This Evening Is Treating Me Quite Kindly.”

“Wonderful,” you say, and it is. The sky is dark and filled with snow, and Kanaya’s car is lit only by the dim bit of street lamp filtering its way through the storm. It’s warm inside, warm enough that the windows are threatening to fog. You watch as Kanaya opens her mouth and closes it again, as though she rethought whatever she was going to say. You sympathize, also unable to speak for once. The moment is far too cinematic, and she is far too beautiful. 

_HONK_   
  
The silence shatters as somebody in a car behind you slams on their horn. You turn your head, sending off your best death glare to the unknown driver, erven though you know they can’t see your face. It’s some kid with overgrown hair and a junker car that seems to be struggling to stay idle on the steep, slushy hill of the road behind you. You have never hated anyone more. 

“Shall We Go?” Kanaya’s smooth voice cuts through your burn of frustration, and you sigh. You know she’s right, so you turn around and try to ensure that you don’t look too irrational and angry. The angry dipshit’s headlights are outlining her now, giving a soft halo effect to her the gentle sweeps and waves of her dark hair. It helps. 

“Yes,” you say, let’s.” 

Kanaya nods and turns toward the road, tucking a curl behind her ear as she does. The kid behind you honks again, and she shifts the car to drive, pulling out into the adjoining parking lot that will lead you back around to the main road. She turns a dial on the center console as she drives, and the familiar sound of Hozier’s “Work Song” begins to spill out from her speakers. A good choice, in your opinion. Very gay. 

“I Hope You Don’t Mind The Music,” she says, and you almost laugh at how much you do not mind. 

You shake your head “I’m secretly a Hozier fan myself, if I’m being honest. His music is…” you trail off, trying to think of a way to reference the popular “lesbians love Hozier” trope without being too obvious. You settle on, “I find his lyrics quite compelling.” 

“Oh,” says Kanaya. “Myself As Well.” 

You hazard a look toward her seat only to find her looking at you through the corner of her eyes. She quickly looks away again as she makes a turn, but she returns her gaze to you as soon as the car is straightened. You take the risk of making eye contact long enough to smile, and just before she looks away again, she smiles back. 

Score. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You ever start writing a fic about winter in the middle of July, only to end up posting chapter three while there's snow on the ground? Yeah. 
> 
> The next chapter should be up relatively soon, but it won't be very long.


	4. Answers, But Not Really

By the time the two of you reach your favorite coffee shop on the other side of town, you’ve managed to start carving your way out of your self-imposed prison of formality. Kanaya makes you laugh a few times, and it’s hard to stay poised while giggling like a lovestruck schoolgirl. Even better, though, a few of your own comments get through to her sense of humor, and you find that watching her own poised exterior devolve into giggles is quite possibly the cutest thing in the world. She bites her bottom lip when she laughs. 

When you arrive, Kanaya slips out of her seat and around to your door before you can even process what’s happening. She opens your door for you as you get out, and you huddle into your coat and grasp for conversation topics in the vain hope of dristracting her from how much that stupid act of chivalry makes you blush. 

“Hey, how’d you get around the car so fast?” 

She doesn’t meet your eyes, but you can see the smirk playing at the edges of her mouth from your place next to her. 

“I’m Quicker Than I Look.” 

“I see,” you say. When you reach the building a moment later, you go out of your way to open the door for her before she can touch it. You can’t tell whether she’s blushing under the warm golden brown of her skin, but she laughs a little when you make a showy flourish to beckon her forward, and you can’t ask for anything more. 

Inside, you cut in front of her in line and order yourself a dark chocolate mocha. Then, before Kanaya can object, you politely tell the cashier that you’d like to “um, pay it forward, as it were,” which Kanaya laughs at. She orders a black coffee with two shots of espresso, and you ignore the way your heart flutters when you pay for her. You have no reason to be getting excited about just returning a favor, but you really do feel like you’re on a date. As things stand, the evening has already been more romantic than a good number of the dates you’ve been on. 

Once your orders are served up at the counter, the two of you retreat to Kanaya’s usual table at the back corner of the little shop. It’s warm there away from the windows, and you drink in the sight of Kanaya’s collarbones as she shrugs off her high-collared winter coat. You almost feel bad about the staring, but you catch her own eyes lingering around your neck, and dammit, you’re allowed to think she’s a little sexy. You hope she thinks the same of you. 

“So, Might I Ask What’s Keeping You In Town For Break?” 

Shit. You look up to meet Kanaya’s expectant eyes and pray to every black abyssal god you’ve never quite believed in that one of these days she’s going to start a conversation while you’re not lost in a mental spiral brought on by how fucking hot she is. Today, though—today is not that day. 

Much to your chagrin, you have no choice but to choke out, “I’m sorry?” 

Kanaya, to her credit, takes your faltering in stride. 

“I Asked Why You Decided To Stay In The Dorms Between Terms.” 

“Oh.” You sigh and shake your head. You were hoping not to have to talk about your home life so soon in this (friend? relation??)ship, but you suppose the topic is unavoidable. “I just like it here a lot, and things at home are a little bit… weird.” 

“Weird?” 

You shrug. “My mom and I don’t always get along, so it’s much easier for me to relax here, even if it is a bit lonely. Instead of my going home, she’s flying over here to visit for Christmas.” That is quite enough family talk, so you decide to maneuver the conversation away from your own life. 

“What about you?” 

“Ah.” Kanaya’s smile falters a little as she sets down her coffee. Oops. “I’m Afraid I Don’t Have Anywhere Else To ,Go” she says, and your heart begins the laborious process of twisting itself in half. “If I Do Have Any Living Family, I Have Certainly Not Been Made Aware Of It.” 

“I’m sorry,” you say. “That’s—”

“It’s Quite Alright,” she interrupts. “I Don’t Mean To Cut You Off, But You Really Needn’t Worry About Me.” 

Your breath catches you your throat as you watch Kanaya reach out across the table as she talks, her hand approaching yours and reaching out only to stop just short. She shifts her weight and relaxes her fingers, making the gesture look natural, but you’re spiraling. It would be so easy to take her hand right now, and that motion was so close to an invitation. You know that if you tried, you could convince yourself it was one. 

“I’ve Gotten Quite Good At Taking Care Of Myself Over The Years.” 

You look up to examine her face, your whole body still itching to reach out and take her hand. She’s not looking at you, but rather at the expansive inch of air and tabletop that separates your fingers. 

“Of Course,” she tilts her head and looks up at you from beneath her eyelids, “That Isn’t To Say That I Don’t Appreciate A Friend.” 

You can’t hold yourself back any longer. You let go of your coffee cup and let your hand slip down to the tabletop, its position strategically brushing against Kanaya’s. She doesn’t pull away, and so you shift to intertwine your fingertips ever so slightly. 

“Well, I’m glad that I’m here to be a friend, then.” If this is the fabled friend-zone, you don’t know what all those boys are complaining about. You’re in heaven. 

“Indeed. I’m Grateful As Well.” Kanaya reaches for her coffee with her free, non-dominant left hand, leaving her right touching yours. Score. 

You linger for a minute, luxuriating in the feeling of intimacy, but it’s not long before curiosity and the desire to hear her voice overwhelm those feelings. 

“So, may I ask where you lived before attending school here.” 

“Of course.” Kanaya smiles at you warmly, her hand still touching yours. “Though, I’m afraid it’s a complicated answer.” 

“I don’t mind complicated.” In fact, you love complicated. Complicated means more time listening to her talk and more details about her life. 

“When I Was Much Younger I Lived In The Middle East. Please Don’t Ask What Country, Though. It Was A Long Time Ago, And Those Details Are So Difficult.” She pauses, and you smile at her in what you hope comes off as a reassuring way. She continues, “After That, I Moved To France For A Period, And A Number Of Years After That, I Migrated To America. I Lived In New York At First, As Most Did, But I Moved Near Here Not Too Long After, All Things Considered.” 

Ah, that explains the untraceable accent. 

“Goodness,” you say. "That’s a lot more interesting than most people’s stories. Can you speak French or Arabic?” 

Kanaya shakes her head. “I Suppose I’m What You Could Call Fluent In French, But I’m Afraid I Don’t Know Any Modern Arabic. Time Has Such A Way Of Rendering Languages Difficult.” 

You smile. “I’ve been trying to learn a little French myself, but I’m afraid it’s not going very well.” 

“Well, Perhaps I Could Tutor You.” 

Yes. Yes. You have never wanted anything in your life as much as you want to be tutored in French by Kanaya. French and Arabic are both beautiful languages, and you can already make out the music of them both in Kanaya’s previously unidentifiable accent. You cannot even begin to imagine how hot it would be to listen to her speak French to you. 

“Oui. I’d like that very much.”

“Is That A Date, Then?” 

You shift a bit, moving to take Kanaya’s hand more fully in your own. She looks at you, her poised exterior cracking again as she grins and reveals her teeth, distinctive pointed canines and all. “Yes,” you say, “I think it is.” 


	5. Delicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 413!

The next day, you set out for the campus library an hour before your scheduled date time. It closes early during break, so for the first time in at least a week, you leave your dorm while there’s still sun out. Setting sun, but still. 

The walk is frosty, but not frigid, so you’re thankfully able to enjoy the sight of the frozen river below you rather than burying your face in your scarf. The river back home never froze thanks to the waterfall, so it’s rather transfixing to look at. You never knew that something that moved so aggressively before could be tamed. You might even be able to walk on it without dying. 

You slow, squinting to examine the ice more closely. It’s covered in snow, and thus hard to gauge its thickness. You decide against walking on it, hurrying onward past the end of the bridge and down the block to the library. The narrow sidewalk behind it looms at you, and you do your best not to make eye contact with it. You are not, generally speaking, a fearful person, but you are doing your best to ensure that nothing happens that might lead you to believe in vampires. The road of the crackpot paranormalist is not one you’d like to travel on a Wednesday night, as you’ve always fancied the occult a weekend activity. 

And besides, who needs to live deliciously when you’ve already got plans for a delicious date? 

You notice a small handfull of cars in the parking lot as you near the library. You don’t know why; it’s not like anybody has homework over winter break. Nonetheless, you ready yourself for the search for an empty place to study with Kanaya. You want to be able to talk without disturbing other students. And, more importantly, you do not want any distractions as you listen to Kanaya speak French to you. You imagine her tongue curling over all those husky, unspoken vowels, curled up in some isolated corner of the stacks. Someplace where no bystanders could walk in on you. 

Nope. 

You bite your lip and pick up the pace again, scurrying up the library steps. It is notably more difficult to be horny when ice cold air is raking through your lungs at way-too-fast miles per hour, and so you are only mostly relieved when you open the door and are greeted by a blast of hot air. If you were a character in a porno, or maybe just ten percent stupider, you would consider spending the next hour holed up in a bathroom fantasizing. Instead, because you are a woman with character, you begin to looking for a good place to sit. There aren’t many students around, but the ones that are present are already spread out antisocially across the floor, which makes finding someplace empty notably more difficult. 

Once you’ve searched the main study areas, you circle back around to the middle of the building and slip through the theft-detection gates into the library proper. There are fewer study spaces here, you know, but they should be sparsely populated. The front desk guy smiles at you, and you give him a forced one in return, hoping he doesn’t come talk to you. 

The staircase to your left is beckoning to you, tempting you to take the easy route and find a seat in the second floor study area, but you resist. You aren’t in the mood for beige and ancient upholstery right now. That leaves either the upstairs stacks or the mostly unknown area around the corner to your right, and you make a definitely not lazy choice to stay on the first floor and explore the jungle of archives and mystery. 

Turns out, what’s behind the corner is more beige. There’s lots of archived “reference materials” and catalogs— all the non-book shit that you aren’t allowed to leave the building with. This is followed by a sealed off room for very old reference materials, and the entrance to a labyrinthine display of old magazines and newspapers. You’re reminded of the little local bookstore built into a house, the weird crannies where the shelves spiral around to fit everything into the building. This archive is bursting at the seams, and you are suddenly rather interested. 

You duck into the space between the shelves, following the way it twists and turns. This continuous section seems to be all local newspapers, and you suppose that that explains the architecture. They could have fit everything here more normally, but not without separating news types into unrelated rows. Weird choice, but you get it. 

Then, as you turn a corner, you find the holy grail. You’ve hit the back wall of the library, and there’s a little set of armchairs and a table buried back here. Nobody is ever going to find you back there, and the furniture looks well kept to boot. Not many people around to wear out the armchairs in the local news archive, you suppose. 

Resolving to text Kanaya once it’s closer to your predetermined meeting time, you set down your things and slip out of your coat. It’s much lighter and cooler without it, and you decide you can afford to spend some energy exploring. You run your hand along the wood of the shelf, reading the dates on the folders. They have archives dating back to the start of the university in the 1890s, although the issues from back then are copies for obvious reasons. Curious, you slide a magazine-holder off the shelf and begin leafing through its contents. There’s an issue of a local newspaper from a few years after the university was founded, and when you slide it out, you are shocked to see a headline about a body snatching. Suddenly, you know what you’re spending the rest of your break on. 

~

An hour later, you and Kanaya are waist deep into your french lesson. She’s proving to be a capable, if imperfect teacher, and you are happy to find that the sound of her speaking french to you is in fact delectable. 

_“D'où Êtes-Vous?”_

She leans forward in her chair as she speaks, her whole body signaling her attention to you, and you try not to think about the fact that your knees are touching as you formulate your answer. 

_“Le État de New York, je pense.”_

A smile brushes across Kanaya’s face, and she reaches out to take your hand. Her skin is cold, but lotion-soft. 

“My Dearest Rose,” she runs a thumb across your hand as you speak, and something in her expression makes you feel like a naughty catholic schoolgirl being scolded by a sexy nun. “You Mustn’t Hedge Your Statements So. I Know You Are Quite Confident In English.” 

“You could say that.” You shift to hold her hand more stably, then stand up and turn to face her. You make a real effort to do it in one smooth movement too, just in case Kanaya expects gracefulness from pseudo-girlfriends as well as from herself. “But just in case,” you lean down, balancing your hands on the armrests of Kanaya’s chair, “would you like to advise me more on your assertiveness?” 

“Oh.” She looks genuinely surprised for a moment before her eyelids lower seductively, and you know you’ve won. Then she places a hand on your cheek, and you’re losing it again. “What Shall I Teach You?” 

“How do you say teach in French?” 

You lean in closer and whisper, hoping that you can carry the mood despite needing to ask. 

_“Instruire.”_

_“Me instruit sur l'amour.”_

_“Oui.”_

You lean in toward her, smelling the rose and incense of what must be her perfume, and she guides you the final distance, pressing your lips together. They’re soft, incredibly soft, and the kiss she places is the most delicate you have ever felt. You pull away ever so slightly, then lean in again, pressing your lips in more closely. She follows, and you kiss again. And again. And again. And you lose yourself in the feeling of lips on your lips, of tongue and teeth, of lips on skin, trailing down your cheek and onto your neck. She works some magic there, entrancing you absolutely although you have never been the neck kissing-hickey getting type before. You breathe in, treasuring the feeling of warmth and shivers down your spine, and then everything stops. 

You open your eyes, surprised to find Kanaya sitting below you looking startled and possibly afraid. Shit. You shift back and look around quickly, fearing you’ve been spotted, but the archive shelves are as vacant as ever. You turn back around. 

“Kanaya. What’s wrong?” 

She seems to compose herself then, familiar elegance overtaking panic, but she still looks far too sad. 

“Rose Dearest, I’m Terribly Sorry, But I’m Afraid I Cannot Be Here Any Longer.” 

You slip off of Kanaya’s chair, untangling your legs and missing the cool presence of her skin as soon as it’s gone. 

“What happened?” 

You are going to walk away down that icy river and never come back if she says you hurt her. 

“I’m Sorry, I Am, But I Shouldn’t Be Here.” 

You watch in dismay as she gathers her things. She keeps looking at you, parting lips and closing them like she can’t decide whether to speak. You’re stunned into silence. She closes the straps of her backpack, running her eyes over you again. 

“Rose, I.” She stops again. She bites her lip. _“Rose, Mon Fleur, Je Vais Te Faire Du Mal Si Je Reste Ici.”_

“You know I don’t know what that means.” 

She nods and moves to take your hand, and you let her. 

“You are wonderful,” she says. _“Je Suis Vraiment Désolé._ You should see to your neck.” She opens her mouth again, and then she is gone, long coat whirling behind her as she disappears between the shelves. You're reeling. You touch a hand to the place on your neck she was kissing, partly in surprise and partly for her warning, and you’re shocked to see blood when you pull it back. 

Fuck. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I speak approximately 0 French, so this is all google translate. Please do not harass me, actual French speakers. 
> 
> Another fun fact: This fic is set on the campus of an IRL university, which did in fact have a body snatching incident back when it first opened its medical school. Wild shit.


	6. The Power of Positive Thinking and Beige

You wake up the next morning feeling like shit. You’re on your futon, still in your clothes from the night before, and your face feels sticky as you peel it off the cheap upholstery. You can’t tell if that’s from crying or from the empty Panda Express® honey walnut shrimp container laying on the floor next to you, and you don’t think you want to know. At least you sprang for the good shit. 

Your microwave tells you it’s nine in the morning, which is earlier than you’d like it to be, but there’s no way you can sleep again feeling so disgusting. With a sigh, you pry yourself all the way off the futon, nearly sticking your foot in your panda bowl as you do. You can’t believe you fell asleep with a shrimp still in there. What a waste. 

You go to check your phone mechanically once you’re up, but the screen refuses to light. It’s dead. As you start to look for your charger, you’re suddenly hit by something crushing. Kanaya might have texted you. Kanaya “love of your college life, most beautiful woman you have ever met, first person to run away after a first kiss with you” Maryam could have texted you overnight, but you were passed out in a misery and “chinese” food-fueled stupor. 

You find the charger then, plugging in your phone to watch the battery display appear, and you consider your options. You could turn your phone on and find a message, thus beginning a mutual discourse and reasonable discussion of the previous day’s events; you could turn your phone on and _not_ find a message, thus making yourself even sadder; or, you could leave your phone off and just not deal with this shit right now. It’s not a responsible choice, but you can rationalize that. You’re in college and just got maybe dumped. The time for bad choices is now. 

Sticky face pressuring you for speed, you decide to put it off. At the very least, you want to be clean before your second heartbreak. You grab your towel and shower caddy, resolving to let fucking loose this time. There’s nobody else around, so the warm comfort of the best shower stall can be yours and yours alone for as long as you want. You haven’t taken an hour long shower in ages. 

~

After a solid half hour of scrubbing and drifting away in the hot water, you finally start to feel like a person again. Steam strips grime and sweat away from your skin, strips misery away from underneath, and your head is something like clear. You know yourself well enough to know that you are still sad, still angry, still lonely, but more than any of that, you want answers. A squiddles binge with Jade and a pint or two of Chocolate Therapy® can get you through a rejection, but that is not what you are dealing with here. You like your feeling to be cryptic, not your relationships. 

You turn the past several days over in your mind, searching for anything that could give you answers. Until your date at the library, Kanaya was perfect to you. She was prompt, polite, and flattering. She listened to you as though she were hanging on your every word, and her mannerisms certainly seemed seductive. The only oddities were her answers to some questions about herself, which you realize looking back were weirdly vague. To listen to her tell it, the timeline of her life is defined by chunks of “a period, a number of years, not too long after.” She hadn’t even suggested ages for any of it, and you’re pretty sure her answer for why she didn’t know any “modern arabic” was also weirdly phrased. Why specify modern? Does she know another, not-modern dialect? 

But then, most importantly, what does any of that have to do with ditching you after a kiss? And why the hell was your neck bleeding? Either she’s just inexplicably crazy, or there’s something else going on that you’re missing. The only connection you can think of between caginess about her past and freaking out after a neck kiss is vampirism, and though that idea is enticing, you’re not willing to go down that road quite yet. 

Instead, you finally accept that it’s time to get out of the shower. Your stomach is grumbling, and your fingers are beginning to prune. It’s time for brunch, and maybe an outing, in the name of distracting yourself. 

~

Against your better judgement, you find yourself back in the local archives that afternoon, phone still unchecked. Your stomach is now full of pizza rolls, but your mind is as full of curiosity as it was in the shower. You can’t bring yourself to deal with Kanaya yet, so you figure the next best thing is satisfying your other major curiosity: your need to know what the fuck was going on with that person in the alley. 

The library is as sparsely populated as ever when you arrive, the desk guy as smiley as ever. You acknowledge him vaguely as you pass, but you’re relieved when the twisting shelves of the news archive appear in front of you. You want to be alone. 

The local news section is one long, twisting aisle of shelves with narrow passages to other areas, keeping you on one consistent timeline even as you weave back and forth between walls. The frontmost shelves are partially empty, making room for new papers to follow the current 2019 editions. The most buried shelves, the ones lurking near the back wall that Kanaya abandoned you against, are overflowing with copies of papers dating all the way back to the eighteen-forties. You decide to dump your coat on a chair, then head back to the front to reread the incidents you already know of. 

You find an article about the man you found sitting in a manilla magazine holder at the front of the display (what is it with libraries and beige?), and pull it out. It’s a real news article this time, not some random ghost-hunter’s op-ed, and it has an interview with the victim, as well as an apparent transcript of the statement you gave officer Sandra. You’re almost offended they didn’t try to interview you as well, but as you think about it, you realize that you’ve been ignoring voicemails and phone calls from unknown numbers as per usual. They very well could have contacted you without your knowing, as could the police in search of a followup. Shit. You really need to check your voicemail, but phone stuff is exactly what you’re trying not to think about, so you decide to ignore that fact for a while more and read the rest of the article. You are indulging in a designated bad decision day, after all. 

Overall, the article seems to be a pretty detailed account of what happened, which you figure is due to the lack of other news to cover while all the rowdy college students have vacated town for a month. It describes a lot of what you already know, but the interview with the victim is interesting. His name is apparently Gamzee Makara, and he’s one of the small handful of homeless people that live in your town consistently. Looking closer at his face, you think he’s the man you’ve seen sitting between the smoke shop and falafel restaurant before, and you take a small bit of satisfaction from knowing that you’ve donated money to him. Good deed 2x combo! He says that he was cutting behind the alley at a little before 8pm that night on his way back to the spot on campus he tends to shelter during the snow, and that he was attacked from behind. Whoever it was moved super fast, and felt “kind, like, skinny but freaky strong, y’know,” and they bit him on the neck. He can’t remember clearly past that, and he has no idea where the blankets that he was wrapped in came from. He was unharmed save for minor frostbite on his face and a set of small puncture wounds in his neck. How vampiric. 

Not wanting to jump the gun on your theories, you slide the paper back into its folder and begin searching for similar stories. You know there’s at least one other in these archives—you read it the night you first saw Kanaya. 

~

A few hours later, the evidence against rationality is beginning to mount. You found nothing of note between the ten month old article and your incident, but you did find a mention of a similar report in a paper from another ten months back. This time, it was a sorority girl who was ambushed while she wandered away from a drunken cookout to use the bathroom. Like the boy you first read of, the authorities blame her story on drugs and delusion. Despite your better judgement, the similarity of the situations makes you shudder, and that’s not where it ends. 

You’ve found records of more incidents than you can count on your fingers, and you’ve only looked at the past couple decades. Every ten months, or sometimes every twenty or thirty, someone goes missing for a night with no memory, someone is ambushed and left with neck wounds, or someone goes to the police with a crazy story about vampires. There are gaps, of course, with no recorded incidents, but it’s too easy to justify why that might be. Would every homeless person to wake up with small neck wounds make the news? Would every drunken college kid that gets bitten remember the incident well enough to tell the police? No. The pattern is vague, operating on a strange interval and stringing together unrelated events, but now that you’re looking at it, you can’t deny it’s there. 

You flop down into an armchair as you squint again at the post-it you’ve been keeping notes on. You don’t want to believe it, but the dates and numbers don’t lie. Either this town has a very time-sensitive vampire problem, or somebody is doing vampire copycat attacks. Much as you love Occam's razor, you’re not sure which of those is more unlikely. 

It’s been too long since you got here—your feet hurt and you think you’re developing a headache cause by beige, but you’re filled with energy anyway. You discovered something! Forget writing a paranormal thriller, you might be living one! 

No. 

You pause, trying to reign yourself in. That “might” in “might be living one” needs a lot more emphasis than you’re giving it. Vampires are not real, and you doubt that you, Rose Lalonde college student, would be the one to figure out if that were untrue. You have a grand mystery to solve, and a lot more break time to devote to it, but you also have a life. You have a phone full of messages waiting in your pocket. 

The designated irresponsibility hours have just drawn to a close, and you know it. 

With a sigh, you fish out your phone and hold down its power button, watching as the screen lights up and begins its start. Your heartbeat stays quick and excited, but it begins taking on a fluttery pattern that you are none too fond of. You think you might have actual butterflies in your stomach, and the thought fills you with vague embarrassment as you open up your notification bar. 

You’ve got a pile of notes from tumblr and groupchat messages on snapchat, but no missed calls or texts. Damn. 

You open your contacts, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of making the first move. You know you probably should, but the thought of doing so makes your throat twist. Snapchat beckons to you instead, enticing you to abandon your stress again in favor of whatever memes Dave has been spamming you and your siblings with this time. 

Before you can open the chat, however a new notification pops up on your screen. Your heart surges for a moment, but it drops when you read the contact. It’s your mom. 

_Hi Rosie! Just packed my bags, and I cannot WAIT to see you tomorrow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, the last few updates from here on out should be notably faster than in the past (like this one was!). I've got several other fics that I'm hyped to continue/get working on, but I'm determined to finish this one first because c o m m i t m e n t, so I'm trying to power through it before getting on to the future stuff. 
> 
> Hope you're enjoying :).


	7. Mother's Day

The first thing you think upon seeing your mom’s text is “oh shit.” 

The second thing you think is “Did I really forget tomorrow is Christmas Eve??” You did. You’ve known for literal months that your mother would be flying out to see you the morning of the 24th, but between your dates with Kanaya, your crisis with Kanaya, and your fears that your town may have a vampire stalking its streets, you’ve been more than a little distracted. What a pity that the pagan celebrations those ancient Catholics stole didn’t line up better with your modern schedule. 

You send your mom the obligatory  _ see you then _ as you stand and begrudgingly begin to put on your coat. You’re hoping she’ll be chill now that the two of you aren’t stuck together all the time, but there’s no way you can get away with the mess that is currently strewn across the floor of your dorm. Vampire crisis or not, you refuse to spend a day being lectured about improper laundry care. Even if you do clean, you’re sure you’ll get a lecture about ironing. 

You don’t think your mother realizes the kind of looks a teen with an iron would get in an airport. You have no desire to be cavity searched. 

  
  


~

Later that night, as you’re sweeping the ocean of salt and sand from around your shoes, your mind begins to wander. Your laundry is done and folded, your bed is relatively made, and your floor is about to be clean; panic mode is over, and you’re free to start thinking again. As expected, there are two things occupying the entirety of your thoughts: Kanaya and the possible vampire. 

The mystery of the every-ten-months incidents has been buzzing at the back of your head all night, and you’re still not over it. What the fuck is going on? You sure don’t know. You can no longer tell whether or not it’d be crazy to suggest that Nosferatu is slinking up and down the streets of an Iowa college town, which is fucking wild. Part of you wants quite badly for the vampire to be real, if only to ensure that you aren’t going crazy right now, but the other part of you cannot accept that it’s even a possibility. You’re supposed to be Rose Lalonde, pinnacle of rationality.

And then, of course, there’s the issue of Kanaya. She still hasn’t messaged you, and you sure haven’t built up the nerve to message her, so it’s been strict radio silence. You think it might be driving you crazy. You see her when you close your eyes, her clever eyes watching you from across the coffee shop. You even see her when you think about the vampire, dressed up and intimidating in that long black coat of hers, blood pooled at the corners of her flawless black lipstick. You know so little about her, part of you can almost believe that she’s the answer to everything. 

Honestly, what the fuck was up with her vagueness about where/how long she’s lived? That was some secret vampire question dodging. 

You sigh and reach for your dustpan. You’re definitely going crazy. 

You’re losing it and your mom is about to be here to watch you hit your wacko zenith. 

“Hi Rosie,” she’ll say, “how are you? Have you proved me wrong and thrived living on your own after all?”

“No mom,” you’ll say, “I’m crazy and miserable, and I think I believe in vampires now.” 

As if. 

You need, more than anything else, to take all your emotions and supernatural fears and put them all in a tightly sealed box at the back of your psyche. Not for long, just for as long as your mom is around. Just a little bit of repression can’t be too damaging, right? 

Right?

You begin to plot as you shake your pile of grit into the garbage. How are you going to convince your mom you’re sane? The vampire thing should be easy enough to sidestep, but what about Kanaya? You know she’s going to ask about your relationship status at least five times, and you’re also pretty sure she took your coming out back in high school as some sort of insincere rebellion.

“Hi mom, you know when I joked about being bi as a fifteen year old? Turns out that was the real deal, and I made out with a woman in the library. Don’t worry though, she ran off on me immediately after like she was in some crazy movie scene, so your daughter is still nice and pure and chaste.”

Just the conversation that every Christmas reunion needs. 

You have your work cut out for you. 

~

The following morning is a tense one, its landmarks determined by a sporadic text series from your mother. 

_ Just got to the airport! _ comes at 7:00 (you’re honestly flattered she got up so early for you), followed by  _ About to take off, see you after the flight! _ at 8:00. You spend a tense couple of hours eating breakfast pizza rolls, listening to  _ Lore _ , and finishing your last bit of tidying. The first episode of that podcast has always been comfort food to you, but now it’s starting to make your skin crawl. Something about the concept of IRL vampire lore no longer sits right with you, even if it is the rational/historical version of the story. 

Just after 10:30, your phone buzzes with the dreaded  _ Just landed! Be there in an hour or so _ , and you give a silent thanks to the lack of an airport in your city proper. It gives you mental prep time. 

You take a shower, regrettably brief, and get dressed. As a peace offering, you even put on the schoolgirlesque pleated shirt your mother got you. Green plaid has never been your style (or any plaid for that matter), but you think you pull it off with a black sweater. You pointedly do not think about how good Kanaya would look in this shade of green. Not at all. 

By 11:20, you’re waiting one of your floor’s communal couches,, ready to rush downstairs at a moment’s notice. You have no idea where your mom is. You know the sensible thing to do would be to call her and ask where she is, make sure the rental car wasn’t delayed, but you have never been sensible about family. You are determined not to make first contact in this.. 

Finally, at around 11:35, your phone lights up.  _ I think I’m here _ , she says, and you do not wait for a followup message. Your floor is small, centered above the building’s main staircase, and it takes you no time at all to shoot down the steps and out the front door. You tell yourself you’re just anxious to not be criticized for lateness. You’re almost right. 

You scan the cars quickly when you get outside, rushing down the front walk to the parking lot proper. You don’t see your mother at first, but when you round the corner to the larger parking lot, there she is. She’s a black car, squinting out at the parking lot around her in confusion. She catches sight of you after a moment and waves. You’re surprised how happy you are to see her. 

“Hey mom,” you say as she opens the window.

“Hiya,” she says. 

You stand there for a moment, stuck in a standoff of friendly politeness through the passenger window, and then she breaks the tension. 

“You want a hug?”

“Sure,” you shrug. You’re surprised she caved first. 

You mom slips out of the car and opens her arms from across the hood. She’s wearing some kind of ridiculous white jumpsuit under her winter coat, something that definitely isn’t meant for snow. Her scarf flutters in the wind.

Despite your teenage instincts telling you not to, telling you to lock eyes and wait for her to come to you, you cross around the car and give her a hug. She smells like lavender, bubblegum, and tobacco. 

She quit drinking while you were in high school, but she swapped it for lots of secret trips outside for cigarettes. Now she’s relaxed down to vapes, which you suppose is progress.

“How are you?” she asks as you pull apart. 

“I’m well,” you say. You are trying to be well. “You?”

“I’m great hon. You know I love travel.”

“Right.”

You stand in front of her in silence, grinding some snow under your shoe. To your surprise, she caves first again. She must really be trying. 

“So,I still have to check into my hotel room downtown. How about we drive over there and park, then do something together once I’m settled.”

“Sure. I can take you shopping.” 

You hope your voice doesn’t sound as uncertain as you feel. 

Your mother beams at you before turning back to the car door. 

You slide into the passenger seat, taking a moment to soak in that distinctive rental car smell. It’s a guilty pleasure of yours. From the driver’s seat, your mother begins asking for directions out of the maze of parking lot you’re now stuck in, and you give them. You gaze out the window as you do, searching for any road signs or instructions you might not have noticed before. Pedestrian as you are, you’ve only over driven here with Kanaya before.

The sky has been cloudy all morning, and as you watch, a few small snowflakes begin to fall. Your mother starts asking you about your fall classes, which you’re more than willing to talk about. It’s almost easy.

In the distance, down a sidewalk that you’re turning away from, a figure catches your eye. They’re heading toward you from the river, face and body obscured by a lacy black parasol and a striking red winter coat. Kanaya has a similar one.

Your throat catches for a moment, but you refuse to believe that it’s her. You are going to go hang out with your mother and try to enjoy yourself, goddammit. You are not letting your gay angst spoil things. 

With a final glance back toward the red figure, you direct your mother to turn and take the longer, technically more legal route around the dorm blocks. You ask her about work as you do, diving headfirst into the hopeful land of distraction.

You can’t believe how happy you are to be talking to your mom. 


End file.
